


press your love into my palm

by propinquitous



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Explicit Consent, Idiots in Love, M/M, Oral Sex, sentimental porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 15:09:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18702073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous
Summary: Nervous Quentin, with his fidgeting hands and gentle avoidance, was never supposed to make the first move.





	press your love into my palm

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to self indulgence con 2k19

"Hey."

"Hey."

It was that simple. Eliot heard Quentin's quiet voice and brief stutter and before he could respond with anything better, Quentin had leaned up into his space and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. That had pulled at something in Eliot, like a fishhook in his ribs, threatening to flay him open. Nervous Quentin, with his fidgeting hands and gentle avoidance, was never supposed to make the first move.

Then Quentin pulled away and smiled thinly, not quite frowning. Eliot was dazed and almost missed it when he lifted his hand as if to say, _So there's that_ , but said nothing. His other hand was on the ground next to Eliot's and it only made sense to inch his own forward and cover it, trying to say, _There it was all along._

Eliot pulled him in without hesitation. In some former life he'd been embarrassed of this kind of tenderness, save for maybe with Margo. It was always in him, though, and Quentin had been tugging at its thread for years. He'd almost completely unraveled in the time they'd spent working on the mosaic; every night that Quentin spent curled against him, desperate to quell his fear and frustration, frayed his edges. By the time Quentin kissed him, Eliot felt as threadbare as the clothes he'd arrived in.

Then, after. The second kiss was less chaste, more everything else. Eliot opened his mouth against Quentin's and ran his thumb over his cheek, felt him go slack under his touch. He tested, bit at Quentin's lower lip gently and tugged at the shorter hairs toward his nape. Eliot curled his fingers over Quentin's and he could feel the slight shudder as the arm supporting Quentin buckled and threatened to give out.

"Hey," Eliot said again when he finally pulled away. He didn't sit back and he didn't take his hand from Quentin's face. Instead he breathed in Quentin's heavy exhales and leaned his forehead against his, watching and waiting until Quentin opened his eyes.

"Hey," Quentin finally whispered.

"This conversation is riveting," Eliot said. Quentin smiled then and, Eliot thought, looked almost bashful.

"Well, I mean," he managed to say before he pushed forward again and didn't stop, his mouth firm against Eliot's until he had pushed him back and straddled his lap.

"Should I keep talking?" Quentin asked, running his hands up Eliot's chest.

Eliot squeezed Quentin's thighs. "Please don't," he said and felt a wave of familiar confidence as Quentin whimpered into the kiss that followed. All of his little sounds - his quiet moans, sharp intakes of breath against Eliot's cheek - spurred Eliot on until he found himself gripping Quentin's ass, encouraging him to roll his hips.

"Feel good?" Eliot asked when he'd found an angle that pressed Quentin close against him, gave him friction against Eliot's stomach. He relaxed his grip and pulled him forward before pushing him back down. Quentin gasped and nodded, wordless.

Eliot kissed his cheek, his jaw, felt the scratch of day-old stubble under his lips, and kept moving. He tried not to feel too proud of himself for keeping from bucking his hips but he couldn't resist pulling Quentin hard against his lap, not when Quentin made all of those beautiful, punched-out little sounds and held onto his shoulders like Eliot was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Do you want to, should we go inside?" Quentin asked when he finally came up for air. Eliot paused, feigning thoughtfulness. He shifted his hands just enough to pull Quentin's hips down one last time.

"I'd like to," he said, and Quentin started to pull away until Eliot grabbed at his wrist to pull him back down and finished, "but I don't want to stop. Ever been carried over the threshold, Q?"

"Can you actually lift me?" Quentin asked, only a little incredulous. Eliot scoffed and kissed the tip of his nose.

"I am a paragon of chivalry and strength, thanks. Up." Then his legs were under them and Quentin's legs were around his waist and his hands were under Quentin's thighs. He barely wobbled as he got his footing and there was no denying the pride he felt at pulling off the move.

"This doing it for you?" Eliot smiled as he took a step toward the shack. 

"It kind of is, not gonna lie," Quentin said and laughed as he blushed. Eliot could feel the heat of his cheeks against his skin where he hid in Eliot's neck and smiled, self-satisfied. 

"See, paragon," he said, gently slapping the back of Quentin's thigh where he held him. Quentin looked up, then, and pulled Eliot into a long, slow kiss that set something in Eliot burning.

"You make me feel small," Quentin said, almost too quiet to hear. He bit his lip and leaned in to touch his nose to Eliot's.

"That doing it for you, too?" Eliot asked, then, voice soft. He was surprised at how badly he wanted it and realized suddenly how desperate he was to push Quentin's buttons, leave him shaking underneath his hands; he wanted to cover him with his body, keep him safe, make him feel wrapped up and warm. So he turned to his head to kiss Quentin's throat, to taste the salt of his sweat and sweetness of his skin underneath. He could feel Quentin's chest expand against him as he sighed.

Eventually, Eliot made all ten steps to the door and kicked it open, managing to take a step inside without dropping his cargo. He took the last few cautious steps toward the rickety bed and gently settled Quentin on the edge before sinking to the floor and resting his cheek against Quentin's knee.

"What are you doing down there, El?" Quentin asked. He wore the same half-frown from before, somewhere between amused and concerned and maybe just a little sad, because, Eliot knew, he always was. It made Eliot feel absurdly protective and it only got worse the longer he looked at him, all rumpled and soft. His hoodie was rucked up from being carried, his lips were wet and bitten red and his hair was a mess; he already looked halfway to fucked out.

 _Beautiful Q,_ thought Eliot.

Out loud he said, "Just admiring the view."

From his angle on the ground he could see how Quentin's chest heaved, the line of his erection against his leg. Quentin smiled and settled a restless hand in Eliot's hair, fingers immediately tangling in the longer curls as his thumb traced his hairline. Eliot felt himself relax, just enough, and reached up to touch, to feel the heat under his hand, to make Quentin gasp.

This was familiar territory - Eliot should have felt nothing but ease and confidence when his fingers went for Quentin's fly. Instead, as he pulled at Quentin's waistband until he lifted his hips, Eliot felt a surge of unsteady emotion and found himself floating between unbearably turned on and desperate to slow down, to take Quentin in and apart. Then Quentin sat up to shuck his hoodie and shirt and Eliot's chest went tight again, the fishhook feeling. He forced himself to go slow, to absorb everything: the lighter hair at the inside of Quentin's thighs, the moles along one side of his knee, the way his muscles jumped underneath Eliot's hands. Then Quentin was exposed and Eliot was on his knees in front of him.

"Fuck, El," Quentin groaned. Eliot had barely touched him.

"What do you want, honey?" Eliot asked as he let his cheek fall back to rest against Quentin's thigh. He held Quentin in his hand and stroked him lightly, just enough to be a distraction.

"I dunno, isn't there, shouldn't we - "

"Shouldn't we what?"

Quentin winced. "I dunno," he repeated, "discuss boundaries? Something like that?"

Eliot paused, ran a soothing hand up his calf. "Is there anything you don't want me to do?" he asked, and kissed up Quentin's thigh.

"No, not really," he said.

"'No' or 'not really'?"

The air in the room felt heavy while Eliot waited, so close to Quentin's cock that he thought his mouth might water.

"No," Quentin said, more sure this time.

Eliot nodded and pressed a short kiss to the soft skin at his groin. "I'll take care of you, you know that," he said and let the kiss turn sloppy as he moved inward. "Q, you know that, right?"

Quentin nodded and pulled at his hair and it was the last bit of permission he needed to swallow him down. He took it as slow as he could at first, letting Quentin's hips move and his cock hit the back of his throat. 

This was always his favorite part - the initial, slow unraveling. Eliot wasn't patient but the beginnings of sex always set him on edge in anticipation for what came next, for the promise of pleasure down the road. And now, here with Q hard and heavy in his mouth and in his hands, well. It was impossible to keep his head clear of all the images he could barely recall from the last time, Quentin on his hands and knees, eating Margo out and fucking back on Eliot's hand; Quentin on his back, come on his belly, Eliot's finger hooked in his mouth -

The memory made Eliot moan around Quentin's cock and he inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to focus on Quentin _now_ , who was here and tensing under his hands. Quentin, Q, who deserved all the attention Eliot could give him, who deserved to be archived, every detail of his scent and skin and the sheer warmth of him memorized, tucked away for safekeeping.

It was impossible to keep track of all the small things but then Quentin pulled at his hair just hard enough and his senses fell sharp. The weight of Q on his tongue, the bitter taste of his skin, the feeling of his own saliva dripping down his hand where he held Quentin steady. It was all too much and Eliot pulled back, panting.

“El, please, let me touch you, you have to let me touch you," Quentin laughed and gasped above him. Something in Eliot wanted to laugh, too, at the sheer absurdity of it all, the fact that Quentin was here with him and wanted to touch him, wanted him at all.

"Yeah, okay," he said instead, nervous. It wasn't the first time Q had seen him naked and he was no stranger to getting naked in front of, well, strangers, but it was rare that he was reasonably sober for the event. He found himself inexplicably worried about what Quentin would think of him, if he was enough, if he'd be able to give Quentin everything he wanted. But then he looked down and saw Q's sweet, smiling face, and his naked body - the soft swell of his pecs, the light smattering of hair down his chest and stomach - and stripped the feeling with his shirt and, after another moment, the rest of his clothes.

On the bed, Quentin opened his arms.

"Come here," he said, giggling.

"What is this?" Eliot asked. "Are you _giddy_?"

"Of course I am, look at you, idiot."

"How much wine did you have?" Eliot squinted.

Quentin didn't stop smiling. "Oh, come on, El. You're my El. You try getting blown by you and not getting giddy."

Eliot smiled, sly. "You say that like I haven't."

Quentin rolled his eyes but kept his arms open and waiting. "C'mere."

Eliot couldn't ignore the flush creeping up his chest, not with Quentin looking at him like that, not when he felt so open, so ready for whatever Q might give him.

"Fine," he said, and stepped forward to lie down with Quentin. He found himself immediately pulled tight, Q's mouth at his clavicle.

"Oh," he said and smiled, finally letting himself touch Quentin again. His skin was surprisingly warm, his arms and legs surprisingly firm.

"You sure I make _you_ feel small?" he asked, squeezing Quentin's arm.

Quentin responded by pushing a knee between his legs and pulling their bodies flush. Eliot could feel the soft slide of his dick against Q's thigh and his breath hitched as every small movement sent lightning up his spine. Quentin's hands ran all over his body and he swore he could feel magic thrumming through him, liquid and bright, lighting up just from Quentin's touch.

He wanted to kiss Q breathless and he did, holding him by the back of the neck to keep him close and egg him on. The warmth of his mouth and the gentle eagerness of his kisses made Eliot want to hold him ever closer, somehow, the wet slide of his lips and the way his breath caught when Eliot sucked a bruised on his shoulder consuming him, threatening to burn him up.

Eliot kissed him until he thought he could taste the magic on Quentin's tongue, the raw power coursing underneath his skin; he kissed him until Quentin's hips bucked forward and he found Eliot's hand to draw it between his legs. He still tried to hold back, take his time, petting the insides of Q's thighs until he hitched one leg over Eliot's hip to give him enough room.

Eliot had never been a patient man. 

Q broke away to look up at him at the first touch against his hole. He held his gaze and sighed as Eliot pressed, just barely. 

"Thank God there's still magic here," Eliot half-mumbled, tracing a spell over Quentin's skin. Quentin started to laugh but Eliot sank a finger in, just the first knuckle, and sent him gasping. He kept his eyes open and intent as Eliot pressed further and teased with a second and Eliot felt as breathless as Q was at the thought of beautiful, brave Quentin, who wanted to look into Eliot's eyes while he fucked him on his fingers.

"Fuck, El," Quentin's breath stuttered as Eliot slid a second finger in.

"Good?" Eliot asked.

Quentin nodded and Eliot took the opportunity to crook his fingers and pull, just a little, just enough for Q's eyes to finally fall shut.

"What about that?" he whispered, thrusting his fingers in firm and slow.

"Mmhmm, keep doing that," 

"You wanna come like this?" he asked, reached with his other hand toward Quentin's cock.

Quentin shook his head. "God no, absolutely not."

Eliot couldn't help it, he felt a rush of excitement, a thrill that made his toes curl. He always suspected, or maybe feared, that Quentin had only wanted to be fucked like he had because he was so drunk, or because Margo was there, or whatever other excuse straight boys always had the morning after. He never actually expected to have the chance again.

And besides, Eliot had been too drunk himself to remember anything more than flashes. He was desperate to try again, slower this time, to really show Q what he could do, what it could feel like.

"What do you want, sweetheart?" Eliot asked. He punctuated the question by dropping a kiss to Quentin's brow.

Quentin had gone shy and quiet again, come down from his earlier giggling. He shrugged a little and sighed as Eliot kept moving, fingers slick in the tight heat of him.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, El, I'm great." As if to prove his point, he moaned and dug his nails into the skin of Eliot's ribs.

"But?"

"But nothing, just. Trying to, you know. Muster the courage to say I want you to fuck me."

"Quentin Coldwater, I never," Eliot said in his best serious voice.

Quentin only buried his face in Eliot's chest.

"Would it help if I gave you options?" Eliot asked, kissing Quentin's hair, pulling his fingers out and pushing back into Quentin's body again as he whimpered. Eliot felt him nod against his lips and let out the barest huff of a laugh.

"Okay," he breathed, "okay. Well. You want it from behind, on your knees? Sometimes that's easiest."

Quentin shook his head. Eliot continued, "On your side? You can be the little spoon."

"No, I want to see you," because of course Quentin would want to fuck face to face, to be able to kiss Eliot when he came. Eliot suppressed a shiver.

"That sounds good. Okay, you wanna ride me?"

"Maybe, I dunno."

"We can work with that." He traced out the spell again, felt the cool wetness and pushed back into Quentin, just briefly, and took his hand back to roll so that Q lay on top of him.

"Here, honey, scoot back,"

"You know, I do have some idea of what to do," Quentin said.

"I know, okay," and as he said it Eliot felt beside, outside of himself. He tried to pinpoint what it was about Quentin that made him slow down, ask questions. He'd always thought of himself as considerate in bed, careful if not always the most tender, but this was something else. This was Q, who he wanted to take care of, who he was terrified of hurting and who he desperately wanted to feel good. He wanted to open himself up, to allow himself to care, and it felt like a physical wound down his center. It was terrifying and exhilarating and he didn't know how long he'd be able to keep it, to keep Q.

Then Quentin was reaching back, taking hold of Eliot's long-neglected cock. He settled his hands on Quentin's thighs and resolved to let him take over, to trust the pace he would set for both of them. It was his turn now to keep his eyes open, fixed on Q's.

With both of his hands behind him, Quentin looked smaller than he was, bare and vulnerable, and something protective roiled inside Eliot again. Then his cock caught on Quentin's rim and his mind went blank, his grip tight on his thighs.

"Fuck, Q," Eliot groaned.

"Yeah?" Quentin laughed, breathless at the first slip of Eliot into him.

"Absolutely," Eliot said.

Quentin lowered himself slowly, slowly, taking deep breaths until he was seated against Eliot.

Then he began to move, shallowly at first, until he was well and truly riding. His cock bounced against his stomach and Eliot licked his thumb before grabbing a hold of it, running his finger over the slit and fighting a losing battle to keep his hips still.

"Q, you have no idea how good you feel, fuck,"

"Mm,"

"No, God, you feel -" Eliot groped blindly for the words to describe the sensation, all tangled up in his body. The hot, tight heat of him, the feeling of his weight against Eliot's thighs, the feeling of his flexing muscles as he moved. The hair on his legs felt bizarrely soft under Eliot's hands and he realized suddenly that he could move them, could touch every part of Quentin, if he wanted.

"I love looking at you like this."

"I see someone's feeling - _fuck_ , don't stop - talkative again," Eliot said and laughed until Quentin sunk down onto him and stayed, wouldn't move.

Quentin bent down to whisper into his ear and his hair fell into both of their faces.

"It feels good," he said with a roll of his hips, "to know I can make you feel like this." In the shadows of his long hair, Eliot couldn't tell if he was blushing.

Eliot turned his head to look at him. "Don't get cocky, Coldwater."

Quentin smiled and pressed a long kiss to Eliot's mouth. As he moved to sit back up, his ponytail, which had valiantly, barely, held for most of the evening, slipped out.

"Wait, come here," Eliot said. He felt the sheets next to his head until he found the tie and reached up, smoothing Quentin's hair back and securing it in the small knot he'd taken to over the last year.

Q didn't say anything, only smiled the smile it felt like he saved only for Eliot, that made his eyes crinkle and dimples form, and pitched forward, his hands braced above Eliot's head. 

Eliot finally came back online enough to change his grip, holding on to Quentin's ass, guiding his movements and bucking his hips up to meet him. He started slow but it was impossible to keep that pace, not with Quentin panting above him, not with the soft moans that kept tumbling off his lips. The first time he pulled down hard, Quentin shouted and Eliot stilled.

"Shit, did I hurt you?" 

"No, God no, keep going," Quentin said even as he collapsed on top of Eliot, tucking his face into his neck.

"Oh," Eliot said, shocked with some revelation. "Is that what you want, Q? You want it hard? How do you want it, honey, tell me."

"Yeah, I think, _oh_ ," he said, cut off by the force of Eliot in him.

"Like that?" Eliot asked as he pulled him down again and again, harder, it felt, each time, until Quentin was just a steady stream of noises against his neck. He felt almost limp in Eliot's arms.

"Q, hey, you all right?"

"Mm, it's just, it's a lot," he whined as his cock dragged across Eliot's stomach.

"Okay, let's - here, let me," he said and rolled them over, yanked a pillow underneath Quentin's hips as he did. He regretted having to pull out but then he had the view of Quentin laid out in front of him, legs spread, cock hard, waiting.

He leaned down and spared a moment to kiss Quentin as gently as he could, throwing himself into it. He couldn't articulate it but he could show Q what the last year had meant to him, trace the shape of his mouth wordlessly, breathe him in. When he leaned back he pushed one leg back and dipped a finger into Quentin, reveled in soft give of him, the way he opened up for Eliot.

Eliot shuddered and moved back. "Okay, I'm gonna,” he paused to take a deep breath, collect himself, “you're okay, you promise?"

Quentin nodded, dazed from the kiss and maybe blissed out on everything else. "Yeah, I'm okay, I'm okay. Want you in me." 

Eliot pulled his legs around him and for one long moment, let himself feel the softness of Quentin under him, let himself feel cradled and careful between his legs. Then he was back inside, moving, Quentin's grip firm at his back, his legs slipping against the damp skin of Eliot's waist. He kept himself propped up on his hands, only dropping to one elbow so that he could brush Q's stray hairs back and kiss his jaw.

Under no circumstances would Eliot Waugh admit to loving missionary, but, he thought, Quentin was the best example of his reasoning. His partner's legs around his hips, his waist, the full skin contact he could get if he wanted, the ability to grab at their legs and push them back, open them up, all of it was his favorite thing. And here, with Quentin beneath him, Quentin who wanted to _see_ him, who wanted to kiss him and touch him and fuck him and maybe, he thought before he could shove it down, love him - it was too much. He was used to casual sex, sex with friends, never felt like this kind of intimacy needed to be limited to one context. Still, there was no denying what Quentin had always done to him, and what a year functionally alone together had amplified. He wanted to peel off his skin and reveal himself, let Quentin see his ugly insides and give him the chance to decide to love him anyway.

Beneath him, Quentin let out a long moan.

"El, please, please make me come," he sighed, his voice too worn out for anything else. "I can't, please, I," Quentin didn't know it but begging always tapped something deep in Eliot, made him helpless to do anything other than what he was asked to do, made him more turned on than anything.

"Okay, come here, come on," Eliot panted. He shoved his hands underneath Quentin's hips and pulled him up, sat back on his knees and pulled him into his lap.

Q let out a long breath as Eliot held him there and barely thrusted. Their position let Eliot tilt Quentin's weight against him, gave him the space to hold him open with one hand and stroke him with the other.

It was a lot, Eliot knew, for both of them. The angle sent him deep into Quentin, but didn't give him much room for movement. So he found himself grinding against him, one hand on his cock and moving slowly until eventually, they were both lost. He felt broken, cracked open and without much left to give. Some inarticulate part of him knew that this was important, that their bodies together, in the dim light of the shack, meant something. He couldn’t explain it if he tried, so he let himself fall into it, into Quentin.

Then Quentin was yelling, a long, drawn out cry into the crook of Eliot’s shoulder, his come spilling between their bodies.

“Fucking, oh, Q, c’mon,” he said, thrusting up as much as he could, his hand tight around Quentin’s cock. “Come on, honey, give it to me, you’re doing so well.” Q went slack over his shoulder and Eliot pressed his face into the skin of his neck.

It made Eliot feel loose, careless, and he briefly lost himself as he fucked the few inches into Quentin he could manage until he was coming, breathing hard into Quentin’s hair and gripping him tight.

And what was left after? Eliot felt the bottom drop out and tried not to let it drag him under. He knew, with stunning clarity, that he loved Quentin, then. He held Q close, pressing his nose to Quentin’s hair.

“Fuck,” Quentin finally sighed, after a few minutes of heavy, humid silence.

“Yeah?” Eliot said, and then they were laughing against each other’s mouths, sighing and pressing their bodies together like either of them had any energy left, until Eliot pressed against Quentin’s back, slick with sweat. Eliot didn’t want to want anything, had an entire lifetime of learning not to hope. But he felt Q against his chest - his small, firm body against him, and what else was there? They had hardly any hope of finishing the mosaic, but they had each other. And Eliot knew that whatever the next year or decade held, they would have to change. He would have to learn to give himself up, learn to let himself to be loved. He was relieved and sad, all at once, imagining their life together. He wanted to be enough.

And yet. He was falling asleep, Q still pressed tight against him. This didn’t have to be nothing. It didn’t have to be a metaphor. He could learn to be what Quentin needed, learn to hold him close, learn to be something he’d never been before. Some part of him, some vulnerable, exposed part, could do it.

Quentin ran a hand over Eliot’s arm where it lay across his chest.

“You okay?” Quentin asked.

Eliot pushed forward against his ass, felt the mild and yet too-much stimulation of Quentin’s body against his. “Yeah,” he said, “you?”

Quentin bent his head to kiss Eliot’s wrist. “Yeah,” he sighed, “you’ve always taken such good care of me. I feel like. I don’t know. Will you, can we.”

Eliot nuzzled the back of his neck. “I told you, just tell me what you want.”

Quentin pressed back against him. “I don’t know, really. I just, please stay with me,” Quentin said, and ran his lips over Eliot’s forearm.

“Of course, Q. I’d never leave you.”

He pulled Quentin tight against his chest. Whatever the future was, they could face it, together, in the morning.


End file.
